All the King’s Horses
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Protect and Serve. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. To what lengths would you go to uphold those oaths? When it comes to a particularly brutal and unsolvable case, the BAU just may have to resort to some more unorthodox methods. SPN/Criminal Minds crossover.
1. Part I

My first foray into _Criminal Minds _(a show which I have very recently discovered and subsequently loved), albeit a crossover with _Supernatural_. Hopefully it turns out okay. Also, though it shouldn't come as a surprise, I am evidently incapable of making Dean happy. Apologies for that.

Also also, I'm putting this into two parts, so it's a little less eye-crossingly long.

* * *

**All the King's Horses**

**Part I

* * *

**

_November 12, 2013, 1:23 P.M.__  
F.B.I., Behavioral Analysis Unit  
Quantico, Virginia_

"They found another body."

Special Agents David Rossi, Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, Spencer Reid, and technical analyst Penelope Garcia look up from the table to see J.J. walk into the room, her stature just as bone-tired as all of theirs have been for the last three weeks. They'd been called in on what seemed to be a routine case in the middle of October, and are still no closer to finding the unsub than they were when they started.

Worse still, since they'd taken the case, another seven bodies had turned up, in addition to the original six. To say their record is smeared black is an understatement. They'd gone over their profile time and time again, altering it, trying to find something they'd missed, but even Reid's genius hadn't been able to decipher any viable connections. Arguably the one who has it the hardest is J.J., because not only is she the one with the responsibility to talk to the media and give statements—_We're still working on it, just remain vigilant, we'll catch him, I promise_—but she also has a barely-five-year-old at home. Will is there, but even he has to get out of the house sometimes.

They'd shelve the case if it were simply about the unsub getting away, but no. Fresh bodies and no leads makes the case unbearably open, and it doesn't help that Section Chief Strauss is breathing down their necks with all the fury that the Bureau can allot her. As if the BAU hasn't been giving their all to this massacre.

Unfortunately, at this juncture, the team is nearly completely jaded to hearing those words come out of J.J.'s mouth. They don't even need to ask the whys, hows, or wheres, because they already know. And they've got the pictures, aspirin, Jack, and bloodshot eyes to prove it. Even Garcia's patented risqué comments and eccentric answering techniques have all but faded. She's been as affected, if not more so, by the butchery, and she just doesn't have it in her anymore.

As the team looks at the pictures of the latest tortured girl—nineteen, blonde, Caucasian, soccer captain—her body a slew of cuts, blood, dirt, rape, and exsanguination, their hopes of finding the bastard who's done all of it decrease even more.

"Manchester P.D.'s _this_ close to telling us to get out of their town and let them deal with it," J.J. goes on, running a hand through limp hair. Giving up, she sinks into a chair across from Hotch. "Where do we go from here?"

Silence befalls the table, no one having a worthwhile input. That is, until Emily speaks up, her voice unusually timid, hesitant. "I was looking through past cases, trying to find something in closed files that might lend a hand to where we could look next," she says, and all eyes—tired though they are—upon her. Biting the bullet, Emily finishes, "There's one guy that might be able to help us. Though it's kind of…unorthodox."

Hotch chuckles humorlessly. "Prentiss, at this point, I don't give a damn whether it's up to code or not," he says. "Anything that could put us on the right track is fine by me."

Three weeks ago, they would've been surprised at Hotch's lack of protocol. Now, however, they simply accept it. Emily's resolve fortifies the slightest bit at seeing her teammates' faces dare to brighten in hope.

"Dean Winchester."

It's not so much scorn as confusion that blankets the room once the name comes out of her mouth. Though none of them had actually worked on the lengthy Winchester investigation themselves, it's not like it was exactly on the down low. Especially not in the instance of his final capture.

* * *

_May 20, 2010, 11:47 P.M.  
Federal Bureau of Investigation  
Washington, D.C._

There isn't one set of eyes that isn't on the man being led through the FBI headquarters with an entourage of no fewer than five officers. It's a scene reminiscent to that of two years ago, except for the fact that the man in handcuffs no longer bears a cocky smirk, a wink, and a grin to any woman he passes by in the place.

This time, his mouth is set in a perpetual flat line, and his eyes are no longer sparkling with green mischief, but are rather lifeless and unresponsive. Despite the number of agents watching his every muscle twitch, his hands are slack in the cuffs, his booted feet dragging on the floor as if every step costs him his last reserves of energy.

Whereas last time everyone had identical looks of disgust on their faces, this time it's replaced by hushed whispers, hushed exchanges of speculating what happened. Everyone knows all too well the events surrounding Special Agent Henricksen in Colorado, knows that Dean Winchester and his brother were also purported to have died in the blast, and yet here the former is, walking very much alive—if only in physicality—through the building.

It takes next to no time for the news to circulate throughout the Bureau; they may be professionals, but a story like this still spreads like wildfire. And so when it reaches the BAU, reaches Hotchner first, he can't simply dismiss the whole thing as meaningless gossip. He hadn't known Henricksen all that well, but from the few interactions they'd had, Hotch gained some respect for the guy. Anyone who could stick with two exceptionally talented conmen for so long without losing their mind had Hotch's admiration.

It's not just that Hotch is curious as to the schematics of Dean's capture so much as he's kind of wanting to look in on the interrogation, study Dean's behavior, his affectations. However much the BAU may mention serial killer showrunners like Bundy and Gein, Dean and Sam Winchester were ones that were also worthy of intrigue. Truthfully, Hotch had kind of forgotten about the brothers after the Coloradan explosion, wrote it off as just deserts. He certainly wasn't going to bemoan the loss of two unrepentant vigilantes.

But now, well, why not oversee? He has no cases at the moment, Jessica and Jack are having a movie night, and really, how often does one get the chance to personally observe a (supposed to be dead) subject such as Dean? Rarely. Never, in Hotch's career thus far. Sure, he's interviewed killers similar to Dean before, makes his living off it, but from what he'd heard, Dean and Sam were far from the norm in their crimes and methodologies.

It's actually lucky he was already at the FBI proper, he muses as he walks towards the interrogation rooms. Had he not needed to sort out some paperwork with a couple of the agents that had assisted in the BAU's most recent case, it would've been a good hour from Quantico to D.C.

He isn't at all surprised to see at least a dozen people standing behind the two-way mirror, staring in at Dean, muttering amongst themselves. The man in front, with his arms crossed over his substantial girth, is obviously the one leading the new "investigation," and, considering Hotch's position is elevated above the others, there isn't any objection as he walks up beside the primary. Hotch vaguely recognizes him as Agent Warren…Williams?…no, Warren.

"What happened?" asks Hotch, peering through the tinted glass at Dean's form. His form that looks completely alien in comparison to the last image Hotch recalls. He's still muscled, and his hair is still shorn, but there's a certain kind of…frailty to him that gives Hotch pause. It's not compassion or empathy, because you'd be hard-pressed to find a veritably lucid serial killer that would garner Hotch's concern, but it's not exactly hatred, either. Hotch knows he should question this, but he's long since learned to trust his gut. Besides, it's not like Dean's their unsub or anything. Which begs the question—

"Highway patrol pulled him over, of all things," chuckles Warren. "Caught him going a hundred in a seventy-five. Didn't register at first, for obvious reasons, but he was still driving that boat of a car, and though the VIN came up under a different name, a car like that brought up more'n a few flags. Case might've been closed, but evidently some of the alerts remained in the system."

Hotch nods, albeit with a frown still on his face. "You get anything out of him?" he inquires, recalling Dean's penchant for sarcasm and a biting tongue. "Apart from witty retorts, that is."

It's Warren's turn to frown, the expression unwelcomed by the man. "That's one of the weird parts," he reluctantly admits. "He hasn't said anything."

"You mean anything useful?"

"No," says Warren in disbelief. "_Nothing_. Hasn't even spoken once. 'S like he _wanted_ to get caught or something."

Hotch glances at Warren briefly before returning to Dean. "Isn't that what happened a few years ago? Got tripped up on something frivolous?"

"Motion detector in an anthropology museum, if I'm not mistaken," replies Warren. "But this doesn't seem the same to me. Then again, I'm not one of you profiling folks."

Hotch'll concede this point. He's not narcissistic by any means, but it's a fact that, as he'd told Emily when she started, his isn't a job you can acquire on a whirl. You have to have a damn good set of skills, more than just cataloguing tells of people at a poker game.

Profiler though Warren isn't, as Hotch studies Dean some more, he has to agree with the agent. Dean's only fifteen or so years younger than Hotch, but right now, he looks like a child that's simply…lost. There's a certain type of ancientness to his stare, a haunted look, but the way Dean carries himself is, in a word, aimless.

"So, what're you planning to do?" Hotch asks with genuine interest.

"I don't know," answers Warren. "First thought is, naturally, that Winchester's angling for something, but we can't really figure out what. According to recorded interviews and Henricksen's notes, nearly everything that Dean said was either antagonistic or things that backed up the supposition that he had ulterior motives. A real wisecracking extrovert. For the life of me, I can't tell what being completely silent can achieve. Let alone basically walking right into the FBI and begging to be arrested."

Hotch has seen criminals do one-eighties in personality (excluding those who literally have two or more personalities), seen some that end up honestly regretting their offenses, but once again, Warren has a point. For one, there'd been nothing in Dean's documented character that even insinuated the possibility for such a dramatic change.

"You got any ideas?"

Hotch had assumed he'd get asked this, but the truth is, he doesn't really have a response. The best he can do is say that there was some massive, _massive_ stressor in Dean's life that caused the metamorphosis, but apart from that, he's at a loss. "Sorry," he says to Warren. "I'd have to look more into the case, and unfortunately, that's something I don't really have the capacity to do."

Warren shrugs, like he'd expected nothing less. "Well, let's just say that we've got more than enough charges to keep Winchester here for a very long time," he remarks, and Hotch isn't sure he likes the happy tone in the agent's voice. It's one thing to be grateful that a murderer's behind bars, but Hotch can't imagine himself ever sounding _chipper_ about it. "If I've got anything to say, Winchester's gonna be in a six-by-eight for decades."

Hotch takes a last look at Dean's hunched figure, and with an uncertain feeling in his stomach turns and walks away. He's got paperwork to do.

* * *

_November 12, 2013, 1:25 P.M.  
F.B.I., Behavioral Analysis Unit  
Quantico, Virginia_

"Prentiss," says Hotch, looking at her across the table, "it's a sound enough suggestion, considering, but I don't think it'll work. I saw him at his last incarceration, and he wasn't exactly forthcoming."

J.J. raises an eyebrow, the Winchester saga fresher in her mind than Hotch's, since she'd actually watched the news in their heyday. "We're talking about the Dean Winchester who flirted with anything that moved, right?" she clarifies. "The one who could piss off or charm anyone with one glance?"

"I'm telling you," Hotch continues, "he wasn't the same man. I haven't checked up on him, but just from what little I saw, I'd bet money that he hasn't said more than a sentence or two this whole time. Even if he _were_ able to somehow provide insight into our unsub's mind, I doubt he'd be willing to share."

"How'd you even come _up_ with Dean Winchester?" Morgan asks, taking a long drag of coffee. "You've got a million bad guys to choose from, and you pick him?"

Emily's glare would make a lesser man cry. Her nerves are beyond frayed—all of theirs are—and even Morgan's light ribbing is enough to needle her. "Hey. Far as I'm concerned, he and his brother have still got enough mystery surrounding them to make them stand out. You can't say that given the nature of their crimes, they wouldn't have a different spin to put on things."

She doesn't miss the awkwardness that follows her words, and wants to bang her head against the wood. It was just a _suggestion_. "I'm sure he could," Garcia inputs, saving Emily further torture. "And I wouldn't object to seeing _that_ face up close and personal, but say he could be helpful. Do you know where he is?"

Emily rolls her eyes. "You could find that information in two seconds flat," she says, and everyone knows it's true. "Look, it was just a thought is all. We're damn good at getting inside people's heads, but at some point, it just takes a murderer to know one."

Quiet dominates again, and Emily's thinking she shouldn't have said anything at all, when her aid is lent again. "There's no harm in trying," says Rossi, and Emily raises her head to look at him. Ever since she'd confessed to him the horror she went through in Rome when she was fifteen, he'd shown almost parental traits towards her in certain circumstances. Right now, that's accompanied by honest advocation of her theory. "We've followed leads that were less substantial than this."

No one can argue that logic, and it's all but settled when, after only a few keystrokes of Garcia's laptop, the analyst announces, "Looks like the gorgeous fiend in question was housed at the ADMAX facility in Florence, Colorado for a little over six months before they decided he wasn't so squirrelly that he couldn't be moved to a maximum security place instead. According to current prison records, he's now at the U.S. Penitentiary in Marion, Illinois."

Emily appeals to Hotch. "You said you saw him, right?" she asks rhetorically. "And that there was something off about all of it?"

Hotch sighs. "He did seem more…quiet than initially reported," Hotch allows, "but that doesn't mean that it wasn't caused by a stressor, like most every unsub we've profiled."

"If this goes nowhere, it's on me," Emily says forwardly. "But what if Dean Winchester is the one person who could help crack this, and we didn't take the opportunity? You heard J.J.: we're one step away from being kicked off the search in the first place. Illinois is only a two-hour plane ride away. Come on, Hotch. I know it's a long shot, and maybe Dean would just laugh at us and show how extensive his psychosis is, maybe it's a wasted trip. But maybe it won't be."

It isn't the prospect of Dean's aid that makes Hotch surrender, but Emily's fervor. She'd had a rough start at the BAU (accusing her of, in so many words, getting a free ticket to the big leagues because of her mother isn't one of his finest moments), but had almost immediately proven her worth, and Hotch can honestly say he entrusts his life to her just as much as he does to Morgan, or Rossi, or Reid, or J.J. And even if they'll be throwing away half a day on a whim proposition of hers, well, it's worth it. Tit for tat, as they say in game theory. Perhaps there's even the off chance that it could actually pan out.

"All right," he says finally. "All of you, get your bags ready. Wheels up in twenty."

He really hopes Dean Winchester will have something useful to say. For Emily's sake.

* * *

_November 12, 2013, 2:58 P.M.  
United States Penitentiary  
Marion, Illinois_

The main warden for the former supermax prison, Nicholas Kuminsky has seen and heard just about everything, interacted with some of the world's worst criminals. Murderers, white supremacists, spies, you name it. It's not quite the most flattering job, but it makes him feel accomplished and, in a way, a better citizen. Watching the most twisted brains get what they deserve—twenty-three hours a day of nearly zero human contact, sensory deprivation at its most intense—makes him want to do things more by the book than your average Joe. (Granted, he still thinks filing taxes is a bitch, but who doesn't?)

As a result of this, he's also interacted with some of the nation's finest in law enforcement, their badges gleaming extra bright as they witness such a criminal go behind bars for life.

The thing he hasn't seen yet is having said law enforcement officials come back for a visit. Sure, sometimes they'd do a routine check of all their "high risk" prisoners (not just in Marion, but everywhere), but it didn't usually involve more than just making sure that person is still firmly in his or her cell.

So when he gets the call from a Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner of the BAU in Quantico saying, not asking, that he and his team would be visiting an inmate, he's more than a little surprised. It increases when Agent Hotchner tells him the name of the prisoner: Dean Winchester. In the two and a half years that Dean has been there, he's never gotten a visitor. Not one. Let alone an entire team of Feds.

It isn't necessarily unusual, considering being put in a maximum security correctional facility tends to put a damper on friendships, but usually there'd be _someone_ who'd want to see you. In Dean's case, there'd been no one. Even odder than that is Dean's mannerisms. Prisoners usually are subdued enough, given that they know they're going nowhere, but until Dean'd arrived, Kuminsky had never seen someone _so_ subdued. Dean hadn't uttered one word that Kuminsky can recall, not anything beyond a "Yes, sir" or "No, sir" when required. A model prisoner.

Were it not for the eeriness of it all and the multiple affirmations that Dean had been quite the prolific serial killer, grave desecrator, and a whole host of other unmentionables, Kuminsky would think there'd been a mistake. Dean certainly doesn't look or act like a cold-blooded murderer. But then, that's usually how it goes.

When Kuminsky gets the notification that the agents had arrived, he exhales and walks down to Dean's cell, trying to keep his interest at bay. "Hey. Dean," he says mildly, having long ago found himself unable to use a tone beyond basic firmness with the thirty-some-odd young man. The other guards have no problem with it, but somehow, Kuminsky can only see a boy who'd fallen off the wagon somewhere down the line—by which he means mass homicide, but that's a fact he has to consistently remind himself of—and so has given up on trying to be a hardass. Well, with this lifer anyway.

As always when spoken to, only Dean's eyes slide over, the rest of his body lying stone-still on the half-inch thick mattress. "You've got some people to see you," Kuminsky explains.

Dean manages to frown a little.

Kuminsky shrugs, relaying his own befuddlement. "They're from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, apparently. Not sure why they want to speak with you, but who am I to break protocol."

Kuminsky's pretty sure a corner of Dean's mouth lifts, which is the most anyone's ever got out of him. A statistic that, again despite Dean's crimes, the warden's a little proud of. It's not Kuminsky's fault that Dean comes off as a puppy who's been kicked out on the streets and wanders around malnourished and pathetic.

"Come on, kid," says Kuminsky with a little jerk of his head. He presses a series of numbers into a keypad to the left (and out of sight) of Dean's cell, and then swipes a passcard through the reader. The door retracts open with a clang.

Dean sighs and laboriously gets off the bed, walking over to Kuminsky. He holds out his hands obediently, and Kuminsky puts shackles on his wrists, and then bends down to shackle his ankles as well. Usually, there would be more than one man to do this, but with Kuminsky's seniority and his personal judgment that Dean wouldn't try anything stupid, he'd been able to ensure that he could handle Dean alone.

Grabbing Dean's bicep to lead him down the hall (more for show than anything else) Kuminsky brings him into the receiving room, a room only barely less Spartan than the cells. The BAU team is already there, not attired like Feds—only one of the agents is actually wearing a full suit—but having that air of perpetual scrutiny that Kuminsky assumes all profilers possess.

"Mr. Kuminsky, I presume," says the suited agent.

Kuminsky nods. "And Dean Winchester I believe is the one you wanted to talk to?"

"Yes," answers the brunette woman, looking at Dean in a way Kuminsky can't quite figure out. She doesn't double-check with anyone else before continuing, "You can take the cuffs off of him. I'm not quite sure how long this'll take, and from what the guard at the front said, Mr. Winchester here hasn't proven to be a hostile prisoner."

Kuminsky nods again, and takes out a key, unlocking Dean's bindings. Because it's procedure, he assures, "We'll be right outside if you feel they're necessary to put back on."

"Thank you," says the first agent.

Regardless that there's experienced behavior analysts in the room, Kuminsky exchanges a quick glance with Dean, giving him silent assurance. As he walks out of the room, closing the door behind him, he marvels again at just how irrational his fondness for Dean is. He's not a fool, he knows that you don't get into supermax for nothing, but he can't help but feel an absence of the simmering threat that all the other prisoners exude. He can't help but feel an absence of the frigidity that emanates from every cell besides Dean's.

Not that he'd voice any of this to anyone else. Appearances and all that. He's pretty sure Dean appreciates his kindness, though, which makes it all worth Kuminsky's effort. No one's eyes are as dead as Dean's that Kuminsky's viewed, and so if he can produce even the smallest bit of emotion in them—in this case, acknowledgment—then by all means, he'll do so.

He just hopes that this meeting with the Feds won't send Dean right back to square one. It'd taken approaching three years to get to this point, and Kuminsky sure as hell doesn't want to start that all over again. So he waits outside the soundproofed door at attention, more than a little curious as to what all's going on on the other side.

* * *

_Trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly and they will show themselves great._

— Ralph Waldo Emerson


	2. Part II

Part 2 of this crossover. You'll notice that the quote at the very end has been altered slightly for my purposes. I hope it won't wreck your space-time continuum.

* * *

**All the King's Horses**

**Part II

* * *

**

_November 12, 2013, 3:04 P.M.  
United States Penitentiary – Visiting Room  
Marion, Illinois_

As soon as the door closes, Emily feels as though everyone else has no desire to chip in, and is leaving it all up to her. Which, fine, she is the one who'd fought for this, but still. She'd appreciate a couple fewer expecting stares. At least one person, however, isn't doing so; he's more not looking at anything, but Emily'll take what she can get.

"Dean, my name is Emily Prentiss," she introduces, fighting the urge to put her hand out for him to shake. She doubts he would. "You want to sit down?"

As if having to think about it, Dean takes a second before doing as Emily offered. With that, she takes a seat as well, Hotch, J.J., Morgan, Reid, and Garcia finding either chairs or leaning against an adjacent table themselves.

Emily clears her throat and clasps her hands together, leaning forward. "Dean, there's a favor I'd like to ask of you."

He moves his eyes up to hers, a mild question in them.

Emily almost laughs. Hotch hadn't been kidding when he said Dean likely wouldn't utter any words. "I know it sounds strange," Emily qualifies. "But we've got this case back at Quantico that we are having troubles solving. This guy's four steps ahead of us, and he's been that way for the last three weeks, and we thought maybe bringing in a third party might help us. You."

She's sure she doesn't imagine the skepticism in Dean's expression, even though it's extraordinarily subtle. Yet, again he exhibits no verbal recognition.

"Yeah, they thought it was nuts, too," Emily says, gesturing to the rest of her team. They accept the light hit, because they all know what Emily's trying to do. Establish some semblance of rapport and, if possible, trust with Dean, to get him to maybe open up a little. They're watching Dean's nuances, but can't tell if Dean's even taking in anything Emily's saying.

"Listen," Emily furthers, placing a folder that contains all the particulars from their investigation on the metal table. "We all know the types of crimes you committed, and we—I—think you might be able to look at the case with a different point of view. I don't know what I can offer you in exchange for your help—maybe it can be arranged for you to go to a medium-security prison or something—but I assure you that your assistance would be invaluable."

More staring from Dean and, if possible, it's edging towards the _Bitch, please. You must be out of your damn mind_ territory.

Emily sighs and refrains from looking at anyone else, for fear of seeing I-told-you-so faces. So she's surprised when J.J. inserts herself into the conversation. "What happened back in 2010, Dean?" she asks.

Dean turns from Emily to J.J., his chest constricted and gaze hard as flint.

Unfortunately for him, J.J.'d dealt with way more intimidating convicts, and while the abyssal depths of Dean's eyes are frightening in their own right, he doesn't scare her. "Where's your brother in all this?" she goes on. "Where's Sam?"

Emily no longer sees Dean breathing, and as though the air conditioning had been turned on full blast, the room is overcome with an atmosphere of ice. Emily catches slight movement and glances at Dean's hands, which have since turned into tight fists, skin stretched taut over his knuckles. For the first time, Emily thinks she's glimpsing a facsimile of what the serial killer Dean Winchester could look like. J.J., bless her, doesn't back down, but Emily's sure the liaison is a little startled.

"I'm not sure that's helping, J.J.," says Rossi quietly. He doesn't have a profile on Dean or anything, but he can see the man is two breaths away from snapping. Sure, there's basically a chance of zilch that Dean would actually have the time to inflict harm, given present company, but that's not really the point, the way Rossi sees it.

"Worth a shot," J.J. mumbles, taking a small step back.

Dean knows the drill, knows that Rossi's up next, and although his fists don't relax, he keeps his gaze on Rossi relatively unassuming. "If you could just take a look at the file," he asks in a gentle tone, looking past the façade Dean gives off, to find what Hotch had so many years ago—that lost little boy inside of a very dark, very dangerous shell.

Rossi had skimmed over Dean's records on the plane, to get some grasp of the man's inner workings, and there was one thing that stuck out to him that he intends to use to his advantage.

Flipping open the folder and moving it a couple inches toward Dean, Rossi says, "This person we're searching for, he's unbelievably sadistic. He tortures his victims past death, to the extent that for some of them, we could only rely on dentals to figure out their identity. I've been over your file, Dean, and although you were quite productive, you weren't unnecessarily cruel to your victims.

"You engaged in mass murder and robbery among other things, but near as I can tell, you were what we call a mission-based killer, a vigilante. Death was your only goal, you weren't too interested in making your targets suffer. I won't lie to you and say you don't have a high level of sociopathy and psychosis, but I think if you see what our present culprit has done, you would be just as disgusted with it as we are."

Dean hadn't moved his eyes from Rossi's the entire time, despite the fact that there was the tiniest wince when he'd had mentioned Dean's offenses. Rossi's not entirely sure why that is, but Dean isn't the man he needs to profile right now. That said, of course, Rossi's pretty damn positive that what he'd just said to Dean is a hundred percent true.

Most people, both cops and public alike, had seen Dean and Sam as solely heartless assassins, and hadn't stopped to consider the specifics. They'd had dozens upon dozens of victims, but, as far as Rossi's concerned, it'd been quick demises for all of them. There were the victims in St. Louis, granted, but as Rossi read the file further, those people didn't fit with the rest of Dean and Sam's mannerisms, so he'd all but discarded it. He wasn't interested in discovering the reasons as to the deviation; just for now pretends it didn't happen.

Dean clenches his jaw, but gives in and peers at the photos, M.E. reports, crime scene observations, all of it. He goes through them thoroughly but efficiently, as Rossi's (and everyone else's) sharp perception studies his facial tics. Like he'd expected, the tightening around Dean's mouth and eyes as he comes across the ripped and sliced remains of the dead says in no uncertain terms that Dean's affected by it. It wouldn't hold up in court or anything, but it's more than enough of an embellishment to Emily's theory.

Dean reaches the last picture, frowns, and rapidly flips back to some of the earlier ones, then skims the text of compiled notes from the team and other agents and LEOs with trained proficiency. Emily and Rossi exchange a look, and it definitely isn't only the two of them whose curiosity has piqued at Dean's change in behavior.

Closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair, Dean cycles through the new facts in his head, trying to make sense of it. He can see where the BAU had had trouble—the evidence only went in circles, leads went to dead ends. It's enough to make anyone go out of their skulls with frustration. Dean and Sam had had more than one case go the same way. The difference being that at least in those ones, it was more a matter of calculating where the demon or spirit would go next rather than who the creature was, or what its motives were. Demons and spirits are predictable; humans aren't. At least not human psychopaths, that is.

Dean's more than a little uneasy that the Feds had come to him simply because they think his head is twisted enough to where he might be able to get into a real maniac's M.O., to tell you the truth. He may have long ago given up on attempting to prove his innocence, and he's not so disillusioned as to deem his head on completely straight, but that's a far cry from believing he's even in the same vicinity as these homicidal sickos. How someone's brain could be so fucked up that they could do _that_ to people is baffling to him.

He's never been averse to slaying supernatural lowlifes, but at least those he knows aren't human. Or, at best, aren't _anymore_. It's one thing to behead a bloodsucking vampire; they'd been human, but had morphed into something evil that had scraped away all the personage they once possessed. The serial killer that the Feds have presented Dean with is just…deranged. It's the most polite word Dean can come up with.

Against his will, Dean's mind is going through everything John had taught him, and everything he'd taught himself and experienced in order to sort out the facts in the file folder. The easy answer would be to attribute the crimes to a demon, maybe even something like a daeva, but somehow, Dean knows this has nothing to do with preternatural forces. Which makes it harder, but Dean's never been one to give up. (Well, maybe he became that kind of person in May of 2010, but now that he has the chance to hopefully send a real executioner straight to get a shot of potassium chloride, by hell, he's going to do it.)

He weighs his options one last time, knowing that there's nothing these people could do to him that's worse than what he's doing to himself and so if he doesn't reply, then that's no skin off his nose. But just remembering the smiling Before pictures of the victims in comparison to the mutilated After ones makes the decision a no-brainer.

Swallowing, Dean's voice comes out as hoarse and deep, owing to the fact that he hasn't used it virtually at all since he'd been pulled over on I-70. He selects two pictures, and shakily angles them towards the BAU members. Morgan, Garcia, and Reid unhitch themselves from the table and walk closer, leaning in to look at what Dean had deduced.

"The, um…here, look at the trees," Dean says scratchily, pointing to the foliage in the background.

Morgan scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. "That's what you're giving us?" he asks in incredulity. "You're giving us _trees_?"

Dean merely stares at Morgan, who sighs after a few moments, backing down. "What about them?" Hotch questions, puzzled. He doesn't see anything besides, well, trees.

"In the first six pictures, there's nothing. Starting from the seventh body, there's cuts in the bark, words," Dean says, tracing the faint lines. No one responds until Emily at last sees what Dean's talking about.

"Shit," she murmurs, wondering how they hadn't noticed the marks when they'd perused the crime scenes. Heaven knows they'd gone there enough. Despite the fact that she now can pinpoint the scars in each photo, she doesn't know what they spell. "You have any idea what it means?"

Dean exhales, unable to forget his knowledge of Latin even if he'd tried. "It's the same phrase scratched into one tree at each crime scene. _Aut concilio aut ense_. It means—"

"'Either by meeting or by the sword,'" Reid interrupts, astounded that Dean would not only know Latin, but the definition behind it as well. But then, if he remembers accurately, Dean and Sam had been convinced they were exorcising demons and the like, and learning dead languages is far from the most outlandish thing Reid's heard a person do to entertain their illness.

"Great. Reid's found a playmate," Morgan gripes. "But for the rest of us who don't know what the hell you're talking about, care to elaborate?"

Dean pays no attention to Morgan's impatience. "My best guess is that your guy would've killed these people anyway, but it was aggravated when you all started going after him. When he found out that people were actually noticing what he was doing, he felt it as an attack. Judging by the engraving, he was rationalizing that before you guys showed up, it was 'by the meeting'; no one was following him, so he was simply killing the people, just not with nearly the level of force he could have.

"But when you began investigating, he felt like you were waging war, and so the second part, 'by the sword,' was him telling you to prepare for even more bodies, worse disfigurations. Which coincides with the reports. The first six victims were tortured to an extent, but weren't as brutalized as the later ones. I suggest you look for someone who has any interest in foreign languages, even if you don't see anything in Latin around. Odds are, he started with a different language, and then for some reason decided it wasn't legit enough, so moved onto the one affiliated with both the Church and devil worship."

Six pairs of eyes are glued to Dean, rather uncomfortably in his opinion, Garcia and Reid's mouths creeping toward slack-jawed. Dean thinks it's probably not only because of his inferences, but because he'd not spoken in such a long time, to anyone, that this sudden monologue is nothing short of shocking. Were they to actually think about why that is, they might discover that it's the subject that matters. Dean'd never been asked about anything other than his incarceration, or his crimes, or Sam, or why he'd succumbed to being arrested. He didn't want to talk about that in any way, shape, or form, so he didn't. But here he's being entreated to, essentially, save people, hunt things, and even in jail he'll abide by that philosophy.

"But fuck if I know," Dean says flippantly, grinding his teeth together. "I'm just a batshit crazy homicidal maniac, right?"

Emily smiles. "Thank you, Dean," she says sincerely.

He makes a noncommittal noise, and watches as she, Morgan, Reid, Garcia, and Hotch walk out of the room, each of them casting Dean a final once-over. Rossi stays behind for a second, and with a somber face, claps Dean's shoulder, giving him a nod of what could be encouragement, but what could also be sadness. Maybe both.

Dean looks away, holds his hands out for cuffs a minute later when Kuminsky returns. Kuminsky asks him what happened, but Dean stays silent. He knows the warden has good intentions, but truth be, he kind of resents the coddling. Dean'd come here with all intentions of solitude, and Kuminsky's not giving him that. So Dean turns a deaf ear to the guy's sigh, and merely walks along the familiar corridor, collapsing onto his bed and musing over what had just transpired. Conjecturing as to if he'd helped at all. Worse still, hoping he had.

* * *

_November 12, 2013, 7:19 P.M.  
Home of Philip Guzman  
Manchester, Connecticut_

Morgan looks on in disbelief as the Manchester P.D. hauls away Philip Guzman in handcuffs, the man protesting the entire way. "I'll be damned," he says to Emily. "That son of a bitch was right."

Emily nods, only slightly less shocked than her often-partner. "You glad now that I had such an absurd idea?" she asks, the airy words belying the stressed ambience.

Morgan looks at her, and quirks a corner of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah, get it all out," he says dismissively. "Promise next time I'll totally go along with you if you want to talk to Bianchi."

Chuckling, Emily pulls apart the Velcro on her bulletproof vest, removing it from her body and setting it aside. "Say what you want," she retorts, "and think of Dean how you want, but you have to admit he prevented who knows how many more murders. You know as well as I do that odds are we never would have noticed the Latin phrases that Guzman marked."

"I'll give you that one," Morgan concedes.

It's not like he's absolving Dean or anything, nor will he send him a Christmas letter, but he will readily say that Dean's discernment was indispensable to them. Though he's still not sure what J.J. will say to the press when they ask how they finally cracked the case. He doubts she'll say they visited the legendary Dean Winchester in prison and asked for his assistance.

Morgan removes his vest as well, and rubs the back of his neck. "All right, I'm going home and sleeping for a month," he announces. Hesitating for a second, he turns to Emily and puts a hand briefly on her arm. "Nice work."

"You, too," she replies, and watches as he strides out the door, with the single goal of getting back to D.C. as quickly as the plane will fly and collapse on his apartment couch with a beer, hoping Strauss will grant them a reprieve from new cases for a while. They deserve it.

Emily takes a last inspection around Guzman's house, still kicking herself at the fact that they hadn't suspected him. They'd _talked_ to the bastard and didn't think anything of it. What does it say about her that a convicted felon was better at espying subtleties than a tenured profiler for the FBI?

Shaking her head, Emily walks out to the SUVs, getting in the backseat of the one carrying both Morgan and J.J. (hey, so what if she chose it because Morgan drives the fastest?), and rests her head against the window, impatient to pour herself a large glass of wine and try and congratulate herself on a job well done, however belated it might have occurred.

* * *

_December 3, 2013, 11:50 A.M.  
United States Penitentiary – Visitor's Room  
Marion, Illinois_

The door resounds open, grabbing Emily's attention, and she looks up from her seat at the metal table. She sees confusion written over his face, and nods to Kuminsky, telling him silently she'll take it from here. He leaves, though with a degree of reluctance.

Dean sits down across from her, awkward. "Is he—I mean, did you arrest him?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah, we did," Emily confirms, and Dean visibly releases some of the tension in his shoulders. "You were spot on. Turns out, the guy was a professor of Linguistics at the local community college. The only thing that even indicated he knew Latin was this book he had in his office at the school."

"Good for you," Dean says, and Emily can't tell from his monotony whether it's sarcastic.

"We couldn't have done it without you, you know," she says quietly, not for the first time wondering why she'd flown all the way over here—in coach no less—to talk to Dean again. It isn't like she owes him or anything. He'd killed an atrocious amount of people; it's the least he could do to lend them a hand, right?

Dean shrugs, sensing Emily's discomfort. "Everyone has to have some help sometimes," he offers, picking at a thumbnail.

"Not from murderers," she opposes, trying to uphold her morality. "Not like this."

Dean gives her a smirk—a _smirk_—as he replies, "You presented a much more compelling position than the booking cops and interrogators did."

Emily's nothing short of surprised at Dean's flirtation, for the primary reason that nothing in the last three years had suggested he was even capable of flirting anymore. She's not sure if she should feel flattered or skeeved out.

It does, fortunately, give her a segue into what she thinks she really came here for. Delicately, she asks, "I know it shouldn't matter, but…what _did_ happen to Sam? Why did you turn yourself in after so many years?"

Dean's jaw tightens and the tension is back in his shoulders, as Emily had anticipated. He doesn't look away from her, just keeps his eyes level, but she can see amongst the anger a hell of a lot of pain as well. "What, throwing me in here isn't enough punishment for you? You want to psychoanalyze me as well? I got news for you, Agent Prentiss: I'm not an 'unsub' you can profile."

His reaction isn't anything she hadn't guessed it would be, and though he's right that he isn't her unsub, it doesn't mean he's not someone she would have liked to profile back before he turned into some kind of mind-numbed zombie.

"I know," Emily says gently, recognizing easily the signs of someone who's using a multitude of defense mechanisms. "I just don't understand how your behavior could devolve so rapidly in the space of two years; enough for you to show everyone that the explosion in Colorado hadn't killed you."

"What do you care? Am I research for some book you're writing?"

"I'm a terrible writer. That would be more Rossi's department," Emily says with a self-deprecating laugh. "Dean, look. I've profiled over a hundred people, studied even more than that, seen every kind of deviant functioning out there. And while a lot of them didn't make sense, yours tops them all. I'd just like to understand. It won't make it out of this room if that's what you wish."

"Then why even ask?" Dean spits, a muscle in his cheek spasming. "I'm not going to spill my life story just because you ask me to. Besides, even if I did, you wouldn't believe it."

Emily can't stop another laugh from escaping. "_That's_ what your hesitation is? That I won't believe you? If you'd heard some of the things I have from criminals, you'd think twice about your statement."

Dean raises his eyebrows. Sure, other people might babble about needing to do God or Satan's work or whatever, but Dean would bet his life—not that he puts much value on it, but whatever—that his story would only cause an eye roll from the woman across from him.

And yet there's something in the earnestness of her face that makes him want to confess everything.

"There wasn't any point to try and run from the cops anymore," Dean says, in such a near-silent tone that Emily has to strain to hear it. "It wasn't worth it. Not after…"

"After what?" Emily questions, weighing her responses very carefully. "What happened?"

Dean rubs a hand roughly over his face, not wanting to have that hole in his heart open up again, but finding Emily's gaze like some sort of catalyst. "S-Sam, he…" Dean pauses at the hitch in his voice, and flicks his eyes up. Emily's are calm, gentle, and although you can't take the profiling out of the girl, it's clear to Dean that she's trying not to judge him. Sorta. "He said 'yes.'"

There. Dean said the words he'd been holding in for years. The ones he'd held in because if he said them aloud, then they'd be true.

"'Yes'?" Emily repeats in puzzlement, not getting the rationale for the weight behind the syllable. "What did he agree to?"

Now that he might as well be stark naked in front of her for all the vulnerability he feels he's exposing, Dean doesn't want to risk her looking at him like even bigger of a freak than she does now. So he bends the truth. "He agreed to be the...leader…of a kind of…cult." It's the least insane way Dean can invent to describe Sam allowing Lucifer to take him as his vessel. "I killed him. He wasn't my brother anymore."

Emily tries futilely not to react. Dean'd just admitted fratricide, right in front of her. How's she supposed to take that? To his credit, he looks absolutely broken over it, but the admission is the same.

"A cult?" Emily prompts. "How'd he even get involved with it? Weren't you two together twenty-four/seven?"

It's Dean's turn to self-deride. "I had a near-death experience. Very near. And it changed him. He just…chose the wrong people to fall in line with. And when I came to, it was too late. He was gone." Emily begins to say something, when Dean's face takes on a desperate air, and she's enraptured again. "I had to do it," he says, pleads. "I had to. He was going to destroy the wor—himself. I had to save him from himself. From everyone."

"But it still ate you up inside, didn't it?" Emily inquires, knowing it's true. Dean'd been a phenomenal actor, she'd heard, but even he can't fake the expression he's wearing now. "You could barely live with yourself. So you turned yourself in so you wouldn't harm anyone else."

Dean smiles gratefully. "Yes," he answers plainly, and looks away, though not so quickly that Emily doesn't see the glossy sheen that came over his eyes.

"I can't say I understand you," Emily says, swallowing, "but I think I can see your motivations. You did the only thing you could think of that would save your brother."

"It doesn't help."

"I doubt anything will, Dean."

It's like Dean wants to provide a snappy comeback, but it'll take energy he doesn't have. Clearing his throat, Dean says, "You done? You happy now?"

She's not, not at all, but she can see that the window for Dean's vulnerability is rapidly closing, and she doesn't think it'll open again. So instead, she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a card. Pressing it onto the table and sliding it towards Dean, she gives him a sad smile.

"I know you don't get many phone privileges, and I'd probably be the last person you'd want to call anyway," Emily says carefully, "but if you ever…I don't know. I'm just—I'll answer."

Dean doesn't say anything, just regards her with a look even she can't decrypt, and slowly picks up the card, surveying (memorizing, she muses is more probable) the letters, and running a finger over the FBI seal, like he can't believe he's even contemplating the possibility of calling a Fed.

"Take care of yourself, Dean," Emily says, standing up. She knows this nicety she's showing him is illogical, but there's something about Dean that just doesn't scream murderer to her. And though she's fully aware she's likely going to be too preoccupied with cases in the future to look into Dean's, she'll still wonder for the meantime if perhaps there's discrepancies in his.

Emily thinks she hears a small "Thanks" as she leaves, but she can't be sure. All she is sure of at the moment is that she doesn't regret taking the flight out here. She can't quantify what she came away with—if anything—but she feels as though she achieved…something. She doesn't tell the warden what she and Dean discussed, in spite of the fact that it's clear he wants to be privy to it, and as she heads out to the rental car to go back to the airport, she's pondering the likelihood of getting a call in the near future from a certain inmate. And dolefully thinks that she won't; that he'll just retreat once more into his own mind.

For Dean's part, he hides Emily's card away from any prying eyes and cameras, and when the lights extinguish for the night, Dean brings it out again, running his fingers over the raised letters for a reason he's having trouble fathoming. He can't say for certain whether or not he would take Emily up on her offer, supposes it's going to be the latter, yet her parting sentiment sticks with him. He'd like to believe it's gospel, like to believe that maybe one person out there who doesn't know him personally might possibly think he's not a callous murderer, but he's been in the cold, harsh reality for too long to have that kind of innocent hope.

And yet, four years from that day, Dean still takes out Emily Prentiss's card each night in the dark, crumpled though it is now, wonders if, should he actually call her, she'd pick up the phone.

* * *

_The righteous man sat on a wall,  
The righteous man had a great fall.  
All the king's horses and all the king's men  
Couldn't put him together again._


End file.
